


elemental exposure

by c0nstruct_out_of_reach



Series: my weak jericho january attempts [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, Mild Language, angst with a semi-happy ending, connor isnt okay, im so tired and i did this in a rush, my neck hurts, not beta read we die like men, not even edited, there are mistakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 00:25:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17254160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/c0nstruct_out_of_reach/pseuds/c0nstruct_out_of_reach
Summary: Connor, in the aftermath of a peaceful revolution for which he was on the wrong side for too long, reminisces about the recent events leading to him sitting alone on a roof in a blizzard on the brink of New Year's Eve.//written for the tumblr event jericho january





	elemental exposure

**Author's Note:**

> im so fucking tired

Connor leans over the edge of the banister, the wind from the gaping hole of the building lashing his synthetic skin and setting his hair into a frenzy. The frost-rent wood iced his sensors from the first brush, but in a sick sense that still bubbles newfangled and young inside of his circuits, it grounds him, brings him back to himself and the present with the warning burning in his HUD.

**> Biocomponent #8345i at risk of elemental exposure  
>Shelter as soon as possible**

But Connor doesn't because he can.

Snow billows into the open space in waves, a sort of algid pool building and growing at the threshold of it all. White and fresh as 2038 city snow can be. His sensors detect the pH level in the snow as 4.3. 

Then again, it's about to be 2039 snow, isn't it? His chronometer reads 11:45:07 of December 31, 2038. That has to mean something, doesn't it?

Humans often celebrate the coming of the new year in usually bizarre manners such as watching the drop of some glorified object, kissing a romantic partner with a margin of human error in timing, making resolutions for the new year they rarely follow, blowing noisemakers, or setting off fireworks. Connor sees little point in it all, but, again, he doesn't see much point in many things anymore. All his short approximately four-month existence everything had possessed too much of a point, too sharp, too demanding, and he's tired of it all. And he doubts most humans will find much to celebrate either with the revolution, still fresh and roiling in media and the minds of the human species. Though won peacefully, many of them are, to put it simply and lightly, not pleased with the uprising. He saw that firsthand, the way people too stubborn to abort Detroit glared at his LED like it stabbed them, ruined their whole lives, took away everything they ever loved. 

And maybe it had. 

So he'd ripped it out days after leaving Hank's home, hearing a ringing gunshot echo his departure, heard Sumo's yelps and cries; days after attempting to murder the pacifist leader of the equally pacifist revolution leader in cold blood just because he was so goddamn desperate for the approval of a manipulative bitch of a handler. 

So desperate to avoid the promised deactivation with failure. 

He knows now they would've killed him anyway, failed or no. He's just a prototype, full of experimental programs and faulty and bugged software. They would have produced a more advanced model no matter what. Only the singing of the deviant leader Markus had saved him from the fate in most senses, both resulting in the retreat of the military and giving him the extra nudge to drop the rifle. 

It's gratitude he'll never be able to voice, not after the show he put on in the captain's quarters of the freighter. He recites the lines he's so intricately woven together to himself multiple times a day, beginning with _Dear Markus_  and closing with _Extraordinarily sincerely, Connor_. He knows it patch by patch, piece by piece, thread by thread. Sometimes he drafts a message to the RK200 when he bolsters himself enough. Sometimes he even scavenges a suitable paper scrap. But, in the end, they both end up in the trash. 

Connor's the antagonist of the story--Markus, the protagonist. Connor's killed multiple deviants directly, thousands indirectly, and drove the only potential friend he had to suicide. Markus saved the entire android race without lifting a violent finger. A part of Connor wants to send the message, just to get the confirmation he craves that he's revolting, a disgusting excuse of a deviant, but deep down he also knows Markus isn't like that. Markus is kind, Markus is forgiving, Markus is the savior of the android race. He already knows what he'd try to tell him, that it wasn't him, that he was forced to, that he wasn't in control, that it's not his fault--

"But, Markus," Connor whispers, dragging a hand along the equally distorted stair rail as he ascends, "I had the choice to stop."

And he chose the brutal pursuit until it was too late. 

Until his hands were stained with blue blood. 

Until his only designation was the deviant hunter, nothing more. 

Until the only way androids looked at him was with fear or anger or sheer, boiling hatred. 

Until the only person he dared to care about fucking killed himself.

Connor still holds on though, and, honestly, he's not even sure why at this numbing point, picking his way out of the upstairs window and dropping down on the roof. 

Maybe it's to prove to himself he can? Or perhaps because he doesn't deserve the serenity of deactivation. In any case, he's again a prototype: he's not meant to last. Connor's sure if nothing else ends him first that the collapse of his own body will satisfy the wishes of most deviants. Some want more for it, he's sure, but nowadays he can't seem to crawl out of the dilapidated hellhole of a house he's taken to squatting in much. 

It's a shame, he thinks while hauling himself up onto a higher roof level, scanning for integrity briefly before deciding it really doesn't matter and settling himself down on the edge, tucking his feet close to his chest. 

**> December 31, 2038  
>11:58:45 PM**

Most of the other houses Connor can see from his location and through the blizzard are dark, but a few lights glare at him through the gloom, bright, happy things that make his circuits turn. 

What would it be like, if things had gone differently for him? If he'd gotten his shit together much sooner? Perhaps he'd be with Lieutenant Anderson and that bear of a dog Sumo whom he so strongly desired to pet one last time, laughing and exploring his new emotions in a more, maybe, healthy manner? He wonders what even became of Sumo after the mess of what transpired after he walked out of the door. Hank didn't have any close kin, so the dog's probably in a humane society somewhere, alone and rotting away while puppies are scooped up. Or maybe he'd gotten out, now running along the streets of Detroit. 

What's worse? 

Connor sneers.

He knows from personal experience that freedom bites and draws blood. 

**> December 31, 2038  
>11:59:49 PM**

Is it any better than being chained to conformity, forced into obedience by threats of death? 

**> 11:59:50 PM**

Freedom has left him with the awareness that things could've been better. 

**> 11:59:51 PM**

It's painful; it's agonizing, knowing all the wrong choices he made, knowing he could've stopped it.

**> 11:59:52 PM**

It's all he can do to hide away--maybe he doesn't want to, but all alone he can't ruin anything else. 

**> 11:59:53 PM**

But then, he can't do anything to fix things while hiding in a half-demolished house, can he? 

**> 11:59:54 PM**

He wonders what's more worth it, briefly, in the freezing cold. 

**> 11:59:55 PM**

Pain, lonely pain, rejection, harsh, biting rejection, or, potentially... something warm. 

**> 11:59:56 PM**

That something warm he felt while petting Sumo. 

**> 11:59:57 PM**

Perhaps it would be worthwhile, to step out beyond his trashy house once and a while, or... pull up a draft... 

**> 11:59:58 PM**

Maybe that was the place to start. 

**> 11:59:59**

Maybe it would lead somewhere, somewhere fresh.

**> January 1, 2039**

**> 12:00:00 AM**

In the end, was that not the purpose of New Year's? 

Warnings glare in his HUD, but he just tips his creaking neck back as cheers shatter the surface of the dead silent night. 

/ /

_RK800 #313 248 317 - 53 : Markus?_

**Author's Note:**

> connor totally goes and adopts sumo after this thanks for asking


End file.
